Architecture of Love

The rhythmic hum of the helicopter’s blades—thump-thump, thump-thump—settles in my head, whispering a coded message I can easily decipher:

“Not him, not now. Not him, not now.”

But I know for sure that my plea is useless, that my words are in vain. I can’t run away. I can’t hide. I can only continue as I am, hurtling at more than a hundred miles an hour toward a destination I thought I had eluded five years ago. And toward the man who was already part of my past.

I tell myself that I no longer want that man. However, I can’t deny that I still need him like the air I breathe.

I crumple an architectural magazine in my lap. I don’t have to look down to see the man on the cover. His image is as clear in my memory as if I had seen him yesterday. His hair is black and shiny, with copper reflections when the sun hits it. And his eyes are so blue and deep that I could drown in them.

In the magazine, he sits nonchalantly on the corner of a table, the crease of his dark gray trousers perfectly defined. His white shirt seems neatly ironed; the cufflinks shine. Behind him, the Manhattan skyline is framed by a wall of glass. It conveys boldness and confidence, but in my imagination, I see more.

I see sensuality and sin. Power and seduction. I see a man with his shirt collar undone and his tie loose. A man completely at home in his skin, who takes over a room just by walking into it.

I see the man who wanted me.

I see the man who terrifies me.

Marcus Steele.

I remember the feeling of his skin against mine. I even remember its smell: woody, musky, and with a slight hint of smoke.

Above all, I remember how his words seduced me. How they made me feel. And now, as I fly over the Pacific, I can’t deny the emotion that electrifies my body, just knowing I am going to see him again.

Of course, that’s what scares me.

As if reading my mind, the helicopter tilts sharply, and my stomach drops. I put a hand on the window to steady myself as I look out at the deep blue ocean, noticing the rugged coastline of Los Angeles receding farther and farther away.

“We’re arriving, Miss Brooks,” the pilot says shortly after. His voice comes clearly through the headphones. “We are just a few minutes away.”

“Thank you, Clark.”

I don’t like to fly, even less by helicopter. Perhaps I have an overflowing imagination, but I am unable to stop thinking that the continuous movement of these machines vibrates, loosening nuts and cables that are essential.

I’ve come to assume that I must travel by plane or helicopter from time to time. I am an executive assistant to one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, so flying is part of my job. But even though I’ve resigned myself to that reality and even managed to take it with a certain Zen attitude, I still get very nervous during takeoff and landing. To have the earth come closer while, at the same time, the helicopter leans toward it feels so unnatural that it scares me.

Although the truth is that before my eyes, there is no land anywhere. As far as I can see, we are still flying over the water, and I am about to mention that minor detail to the pilot when the island appears behind my window. My island! I smile just looking at it and breathe in again and again until I feel calmer and quite recovered.

The island is not really mine, of course. It belongs to my boss, Nick Dermont. Well, to be exact, it belongs to Dermont Vacation Properties, which is part of Dermont Real Estate Development, which, in turn, is part of Dermont Holdings, one of the most profitable business corporations in the world owned by one of the most powerful men in the world.

However, in my imagination, Santa Cortez Island is mine. And not just the island; but also the project and all that it promises.

Santa Cortez is one of the smallest islands in the Northern archipelago, off the coast of California. It lies just beyond Catalina Island and was used for many years as a naval installation, along with San Clemente Island. Unlike the latter, which is still in the hands of the army, with a military base, barracks, and other signs of civilization, Santa Cortez is not urbanized; it was used for hand-to-hand combat and weapons training. At least, that’s what they told me. The army is not exactly distinguished by speaking clearly about their activities.

A few months ago, I read an article in the Los Angeles Times about the military presence in California. In it, the two islands were mentioned, and it was stated that the army was no longer carrying out operations in Santa Cortez. There was no more information about the island. Still, I showed it to Dermont.

“Maybe it’s for sale, and if so, I think we should move quickly,” I said, offering him the newspaper.

I had just filled in his agenda for the day, and we were briskly walking down the hall toward a meeting room where no less than a dozen bankers from three different countries were waiting with Charles Maynard, Dermont’s lawyer, for a meeting on investment strategies to begin. Investments and taxes were scheduled for a long time.

“I know you’re looking for an island in the Bahamas to build a wedding resort on,” I continued, “but since we haven’t found the right one yet, I thought that in the meantime, a luxury family resort with convenient access from the United States could have many possibilities as a business model.”

Dermont picked up the newspaper and read the article without stopping until we were in front of the glass doors of the meeting room. I had been working for him for about five years then, and I had learned to read his expressions, but at the time, I had no idea what he was thinking.

He handed the newspaper back to me, held up a finger for me to wait, entered the room, and addressed the bankers:

“Gentlemen, I apologize, but something unforeseen has come up. Charles, would you be so kind as to take over the meeting yourself?”

And he went back out into the hall, not bothering to wait for Maynard’s answer or the bankers’ consent, totally certain that everything would go well and just as he wanted.

“Call Nigel Galway at the Pentagon,” he told me in the hallway as we headed for his office. “You will find him in my private contacts. Tell him I’m interested in buying the island. Then find Aiden. He went to the Century City construction site to help Trent with a problem that had arisen during construction. Ask him if he can be gone long enough to have lunch with us at The Ivy.”

“Oh,” I exclaimed, trying not to fall flat. “Us?”

Having Aiden made sense. Aiden Ward was the vice president of Dermont Real Estate Development and, at the time, oversaw the construction of Dermont Plaza, three office buildings off Santa Monica Boulevard in Century City. What I didn’t understand was why Mr. Dermont wanted me to accompany them when he usually limited himself to informing me after his meetings only of those details he wanted me to supervise or investigate.

“If you’re going to lead this project, it’s logical that you be present from the first meeting.”

“Lead?”

My head started spinning, I swear.

“If you’re interested in real estate development, particularly for commercial projects, you couldn’t have a better mentor than Aiden,” he replied. “Of course, your working hours will be extended since I will continue to need you as an assistant. You can still delegate tasks as long as you don’t overdo it. Also, I think Rachel would like to work more hours,” he added, referring to his weekend assistant, Rachel Peters. “Based on the business plan that Trent submitted for the Bahamas proposal, write your own draft with a timetable. Check the time on your watch. You won’t have it ready before our meal, for sure. But you can raise some discussion topics for us.” He looked me in the eye, and I caught a gleam of humor in his. “Or am I assuming too much? I thought real estate was one of your personal interests, but if you don’t want to move into a management position…”

“No!” I exclaimed, almost without thinking, as I stood up. “No… I mean, yes. Yes, Mr. Dermont, I want to work on this project.”

In fact, what I wanted was not to hyperventilate, although I wasn’t sure I was going to achieve that.

“Good,” he said. We had reached my desk, located before the door of his office. “Call Nigel. Organize the food. We’ll see where this takes us.”

‘This’ led me in a more or less straight line to this moment. I am officially the project manager for the Cortez resort, owned by Dermont Vacation. At least, I am today.

Hopefully, I’ll still be there tomorrow. Because that’s what it’s all about, right? Whether the news I got two hours ago wrecks the Santa Cortez project or whether I can save it along with my fledgling career in real estate.

It’s too bad he needs Marcus Steele to pull it off.

My stomach flips over, and I tell myself not to worry. Marcus will help me. You have to do it; everything I long for depends on him.

Given my frayed nerves, I especially appreciated the soft landing. I put the magazine in my leather bag, unbuckle my seatbelt, and wait for Clark to open the door. As soon as he does, I breathe in the fresh fragrance of the ocean and lift my head to feel the breeze on my face. I immediately feel better, as if my worries and dizziness can’t compete with the beauty of this place.

And there is no doubt that it is beautiful. Beautiful and virgin, with meadows and trees, dunes, and beaches strewn with shells.

Whatever the military did to this island didn’t harm the natural habitat. In fact, the only signs of civilization are right where we landed. There is a heliport with room for two helicopters, a pier, a metal shed used as a store, and another shed with two chemical toilets. There is also a forklift, a generator, and several other machines brought in to start clearing the land. Not to mention the two surveillance cameras installed to please both the Dermont International Security department and the insurance company.

There is a second helicopter and, behind it, a path that leaves this rickety work area and will take me into the still-virgin interior of the island. And I suppose Nick, his wife, Nikki, and Wyatt Royce, the photographer Nick hired to shoot his wife on the beach and do a story on the island before we develop it, are already there.

While Clark stays with the helicopter, I follow the path. Almost immediately, I regret not changing out of my skirt and heels for something more comfortable before heading out on this excursion. The terrain is rocky and uneven, and I am going to end up with scuffed and damaged shoes. I wanted to put on jeans and hiking boots, but I was in a hurry. Anyway, if I manage to get this project back on track, I will consider my favorite blue stilettos a small sacrifice.

The terrain rises in a gentle slope, and when I reach the top of a low hill, I find myself looking at a small sandy cove sheltered by some rocks. The waves hit the stones, and the water droplets that are thrown sparkle like diamonds. On the sand, I see Nick wrap his arms around his wife’s waist and her head on his shoulder as they both gaze out at the vast blue sea.

Nikki and I have become good friends, so this isn’t the first time I’ve seen them together. Still, this moment seems so sweet and intimate that I feel like I should turn around and leave them alone. But I don’t have time to waste, so I clear my throat and move on.

Of course, I know they won’t hear me. The sound of the sea crashing against the shore is enough to drown out the drone of the helicopter that brought me here; without a doubt, it can drown out my footsteps.

As if to agree with me, Nick kisses Nikki on the temple. My heart races. I think of the magazine in my bag and the man on the cover. He kissed me the same way, and remembering the soft caress of his lips on my skin, my eyes sting. I tell myself it’s the wind and the salt spray, but of course, it isn’t true.

It’s sorrow and nostalgia. And yes, it’s fear.

The fear of opening the door to something I want with all my might and yet know I can’t control.

The fear of having screwed up all those years ago.

And the bitter knowledge that if I’m not very careful, the wall I built around myself to protect me will come crashing down, and my horrible secrets will be out in the open.

“Gabriela?”

I give a small start, startled, and realize I’ve been standing there for a while, staring vacantly and heading elsewhere.

“Mr. Dermont. Excuse me, I…”

“Are you okay?” Nikki asks as she approaches with a worried face. “You seem a bit nervous.”

She stands next to me and takes my arm.